The last time I sent out this newsletter I was in Brooklyn, fretting about traveling to Edinburgh with Kipper via Paris and a “pet taxi.” In some ways that was the part of the entire move that I was most anxious about, and I’m glad to report that it went smoothly.
If you ever need to fly with a cat, I’m sorry to inform you that when you go through TSA, you have to take your pet out of its carrier and hold it as you both go through the scanner thingy. (The empty carrier then goes through the X-ray machine.) This was perhaps the most anxiety-producing part of the whole anxiety-producing event, because Kipper isn’t terribly fond of being picked up and had made us chase her around the apartment just a couple of hours before so we could put her into the carrier in the first place. Fortunately, she was compliant (and a wee bit sedated) in the crowded airport.
If you’re wondering what a pet taxi is, it’s essentially a taxi driver from Folkestone in England, who drives their taxi to Paris (or Amsterdam or wherever), picks you up from the airport, takes you to Calais, guides you through the various pet procedures (people needing to get their pets into Britain represent a sizable chunk of the shuttle’s customers, so Le Shuttle has an entire Pet Reception area that is a lot less of a party than the name suggests, though it was probably more fun for social animals like dogs than it was for a hermit like Kipper), and then drops you off wherever you need to go on the other side of said Channel. In my case that was Folkestone West station, where we caught a train to Edinburgh, via London.
This was Kipper about 12 hours after that 30-hour journey, which involved three taxi rides, a transatlantic plane journey, two trains, and two short walks in the rain. Kipper is the only member of this household pictured, because the rest of us could barely operate a camera at that point, much less pose for a photo.
I think we’ve pretty much recovered by now—I would hope so since we arrived a little over three weeks ago—and have gradually figured out practical things like registering for the NHS (the practice we picked for its location includes a doctor who first qualified as a dentist—does it get any better than that?), how to use specially designed plastic bags to make ice cubes, and even how to dispose of our trash and recycling. Big chunks of Edinburgh—including the bit where we live—use communal trash and recycling bins, and the different bins aren’t usually clumped together. We have now located convenient communal bins where we can take our trash—or refuse as they call it here—compostable food waste, and mixed recycling. The only holdout is glass recycling, but we have found a bin that’s about 10 minutes distant but is on the way to the neighborhood where we usually do our shopping. (Sorry for all this trash talk, but it was really hard to figure out!)
You may have heard that the queen died. I am not writing this from The Queue, nor did I attend any of the gatherings in Edinburgh last week, though I must admit I have watched more TV coverage of the various bits of ceremony than I am proud of. Even if you are not a monarchist (and I am not), it makes for novel, fresh TV, which is all too rare these days. The novelty feels short-lived, though. I can’t see a funeral procession and vigil channel catching on long-term.
What feels odd is that even in a small city like Edinburgh, where there were major commemorations—royal visitors, processions, vigils, our own version of The Queue—you could also avoid it all. Perhaps because it was happening in the Old Town, and we live and mostly stick to the New Town, you might almost not have known that there were apparently thousands of people doing their royal thing only about a mile away. (It did inconvenience me in one small way: I had to postpone my first visit to the Scottish National Library by two days since it was closed last Monday and Tuesday because of the events nearby.)
That’s not to say that there were no indications of the big news in the New Town. Most stores have signs in their windows (or occasionally inside) expressing condolences to the royal family. This struck me as odd at first—do you really think any royals are going to see this as they head into Poundland?—but now it strikes me as kind of sweet. (And whereas there have been arrests for very mild anti-monarchy protests, I haven’t seen any companies criticized for unsatisfactory condolence expression.) I like Oxfam’s (below) best.
Oh, yes, my book! I’m hard at it, currently in the very fun research stage of the chapter on lesbian land. More on that (and less about me) next time around.
One request before then: If any of you know anyone who grew up on lesbian land, I’d love an introduction.
RECOMMENDATIONS: I absolutely loved Casey Parks’ Diary of a Misfit: A Memoir and a Mystery. It’s beautifully written and fascinating for all kinds of reasons, but I especially appreciated that Parks was able to write clearly about very challenging topics without the slightest hint of sensationalism or self-pity. (And she sure has reasons to be resentful.) The audiobook, which Parks reads, is really good.
LISTEN TO ME: Casey Parks isn’t just a great writer, she’s also a fantastic talker, as I discovered when we chatted for Working. I also dropped by last week’s Culture Gabfest to talk about the whole QEII thing.
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this newsletter and want to share it, or were forwarded this edition and want to subscribe, the link is https://buttondown.email/WhereAre. The archives are here. When my book is ready to be preordered, this is where I will tell you about that, but that won’t happen until 2024. Reply to this email to share any thoughts or ideas.
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